Arrival
by call me milady
Summary: Tiny little nanoseconds of maybelove wrapped up in waffle-colored curls and honeycomb smiles.


**Arrival**

**by **onetwosevennine

**starring **S. Italy/Romano and Belgium (Axis Powers Hetalia)

**author's note. **I have no excuse. This was sort of a writing exercise, so…don't expect too much. And it's unbeta'd. D:

**ratings and warnings. **Obvious warnings apply since it's Lovino we're talking about here. Also, overdose of parenthesis and fluff may make your head asplode. So…yeah. Proceed with caution, I suppose?

**Summary.** And for a moment, Lovino liked what he saw; what he felt – tiny little nanoseconds of maybelove wrapped up in waffle-colored curls and honeycomb smiles.

(and it was almost like a fairytale.)

**. . .**

It all started with one question, which, surprisingly, came from his usually ever-dense little brother.

"Is she your girlfriend?"

Lovino turned to give Feliciano an incredulous look, and it garnered nothing but a beaming, oblivious smile as a response. Lovino fought back the urge to scoff. He and Feliciano had just ended their trip to their birthplace of Italy – because their parents Mr. and Mrs. Vargas had bought them such expensive tickets and told them they needed to spend more time together and_ we did raise you two, would it kill you just to do as we say for once in your lives? And besides, sweetheart, _they said,_ this is _Italy_ we're talking about here_.

And that last statement – what a reprehensible, ridiculously _true _statement it was – had been backed up by their respective roommates Antonio and Ludwig, and then suddenly they couldn't refuse (because Antonio had such a way with words and Ludwig was ever the logical guy, and they both said something along the lines of: "Dude, what kind of dumbasses would the two of you be if you reject an utterly free-of-charge vacation trip over to _Italy_?")

And so Lovino was forced to abandon his almost-carefree college student lifestyle – filled with working meager hours at a small diner for the summer and staying up late prepping up for another semester's worth of classes – as was Feliciano, and then before they even knew it, they were off. The Vargas brothers hopped on planes headed for Venice and Florence and Rome and somewhere along the road they lost their respective (defining) traits, Lovino ceased to become a cranky, indolent, irritable asshole and Feliciano ceased to become a lazy, slacking, clueless dreamer, and they how learned to tolerate each other. And _that_ was something that they had lost back in the days of puberty, some time between their first kisses and their first sips of wine.

Nine days of Italy. Nine days of escape. Nine days of _someplace else_.

It was good, though it initially wasn't so. Lovino complained too much and Feliciano whined far too many times and it was as if their detestation of each other that had built up in their brains over time almost exploded. One night, Lovino threatened to leave. One night, Feliciano almost did. But somewhere along the road, the brothers cried on each other shoulders (for reasons the world would never know, for they had sworn each other to secrecy) and bonded over the Venetian canals and Sardinian sunsets and Roman colloseums and Vatican squares, and suddenly, in just nine days, they had bridged the gap between themselves, and it was almost as if they were children again, squabbling in between their late grandfather Romulus's arms.

And so, as the Good Book says, they saw that it was good.

But good things always come to an end, and now the nine days of laughter and friendship and reliance and _brotherhood_ were over, and here they were again at their town's little airport, almost-not-quite home.

After stepping off the plane and hassling through customs, the brothers were confronted by a throng of eager, impatient faces. Lovino's honey-colored eyes (that were so identical to Feliciano's, but it doesn't bother him as much, now) scanned the crowd and then, he saw _her_.

Her blonde curls were unmistakable; the red bow of her hairband called out to him like water to a man in the desert, and her green eyes twinkled with mirth. She had on a chauffeur's jacket, complete with a cap titled at a Deitrich angle, making her look silly and playful (but Lovino still thought she looked almost-lovely.)

And then she waved at them, but Feliciano was the one who smiled and waved in return.

"Well, is she?" the younger Vargas nudged his _fratello_, grating out the words from behind a wide, boyish grin. He hooked an arm through Lovino's – dimly noting the lack of the usual hurricane of curse words and/or protests – and began steering them both towards the crowd, slowly approaching the blonde girl in question. Their parents and their roommates were nowhere in sight, and a thought dawned on Feliciano that maybe _she_ was the only one here to pick them up. It was a little bit odd, considering the posse that accompanied them nine days ago when they were about depart consisted of just about everyone they knew (and some people they didn't), and now it was just _her_, but nobody was complaining – so far.

"No, she's not." Lovino gritted out, awkwardly stumbling to keep up with his brother's excited pace.

"But I thought she was the one who drove you to the airport before we left," Feliciano said, blinking in confusion.

"That doesn't _mean_ anything – in fact, she wasn't even supposed to, but because Antonio the stingiest bastard in the history of forever couldn't start up his shitty excuse of a car to do it for me, I had no choice but to ask her." Lovino replied, making sure to use string as much expletives as he could in the sentence.

Feliciano let out a low hum, and Lovino knew that it meant he didn't believe him. "But, Lovino, she's all you ever talked about when we were in Italy–"

"Just…" the older Vargas snarled, and Feliciano made an odd meeping sound of assent. "Drop it, Feli. Bel's not my girlfriend."

And it was true. Bel was not Lovino's girlfriend, but she _was_ his friend who just so happened to be a girl. He knew her since he was a freshman in college, and she had been his anchor during the stressful times of lousy grades and indifferent professors. Back then, he had still been shy and awkward, yet he tried to make up for it by putting up a façade of toughness and superficial irresponsibility, only to have it all shattered when one day Antonio came up to him to introduce her.

"This is Bel, a friend of mine, she's in my grade so she's older than you, Lovino, and she's a pretty awesome person so you two should try hanging out sometime, okay?"the young Spanish man had said, and for a moment Lovino liked what he saw; what he felt – tiny little nanoseconds of maybelove wrapped up in waffle-colored curls and honeycomb smiles.

("You're Lovino? Antonio has told me so much about you! It's so nice to finally meet you in person!")

("…Holydamnyou'recute.")

("…What?")

But then he saw how Bel acted around Antonio, all giggles and grins and girlish sass, and how she acted around himself, so bold and friendly and unabashedly forward, and suddenly, everything clicked together and from there Lovino concluded that they were probably best off (just) being friends – friends who had late-night coffee conversations and sweet marshmallow embraces and sang each other to sleep.

(And sometimes had one-sided kisses when one of them had floated off to dreamland, pretending that she was a sleeping princess and he was her prince, and it was all nothing but a horrible, fleeting cliché, never to come true.)

(Because the princess was already smitten with the hardworking peasant who possessed sunny, passionate grins and gleaming green eyes no prince could ever hope to match. Also, one of his hobbies happened to be fucking _gardening_. Planting tomatoes, specifically. _Dude, I know, right?_)

"Well, maybe she should be." Feliciano advised.

Lovino didn't know what to say to that. Because now Bel was jumping the queue and suddenly she had ran up to them and was giving Lovino one of the most pleasant hugs he had ever received in his entire life (and Feliciano was oh-so-irritatingly chuckling in the background, god-fucking-damn it) and Lovino was quickly turning so red he could almost rival the color of Antonio's tomatoes (and seriously? The bastard really needed to find a new hobby).

"Lovino!" Bel cried happily, looking like Jesus had just landed in her front yard. "Quick, speak Italian to me!"

"…What?" he said, confused and strangely gleeful at the same time.

"I mean, welcome home," she quickly amended, still stifling giggles. She reached up to adjust her cap. "Oh! Antonio says he's sorry he couldn't be here – his car broke down again, you see. But once we get back, he promised to stay put and cook us both a big batch of _churros_, so it's all good, right?"

"Bel, who cares about Antonio," Lovino replied, half-joking. Her lips curled into a cross between a pout and a smirk ("I_ care about Antonio, silly!_" he could almost hear her think) and he smiled, despite himself. "Just tell me: what in God's name _are_ you wearing?"

"Oh, is that how you swear over there?" she asked with a laugh. "You would not believe how many seventy-year-old grandpappies I had to snaggle before I could even get one of these," Bel said seriously, gesturing to her outfit. "Speaking of which, I should probably go return it. I'll be right back."

And with that, she rushed off again in a flourish. Lovino, bewildered, let his gaze follow her and – sure enough, there she was, taking off her suit jacket and cap and handing it over to a shirt-sleeved old man, who merely looked faintly amused by her antics. _Kids these days_, he was probably saying. _My dear girl, you are something out of this world._

And as her lips contorted into a quirky (beautiful) grin, thanking the man with a friendly handshake and a little mock-curtsy, Lovino thought that he couldn't have agreed more.

He could hear Feliciano laugh as well, and the mere sound of it immediately sent his twitching lips to go blasting into a full-blown smile.

**. . .**

He let Feliciano dominate their conversation even as Bel took her time in guiding them both out of the airport, into the parking lot and over to her car. It was an old Honda Civic, a hand-me-down from her aspiring-businessman older brother, and it showed. Its paint was a boring shade of milk-white and it had a bit of bumps here and there but hey, at least it wasn't Antonio's '_Ay_, bitchin' Camaro!' Lovino thought, so nobody was complaining – so far. After all, beggars certainly couldn't be choosers, and pigs would fly before _he_ could ever afford (and be allowed to drive) a car of his own.

Feliciano finished his rant about the Pantheon that he – _they_ – saw back in Rome and quickly slid into the backseat – for he had been banished from Bel's shotgun ever since he had thrown Silly Putty all over the windshield while she was driving and made her almost run into a fire hydrant – and then suddenly, it was just them. Bel, Lovino, and the cool-warm air of June, scored by the faint whirr of cars and planes taking off.

She reached out to pat his auburn head. "…I missed you," she said after a while, carefully running her fingers through his soft, cinnamon-colored strands of hair. "You know?" She looked up at him almost-shyly with her large doe-like eyes.

And with that, everything fell into place. Memories of Venetian canals and Sardinian sunsets and Roman colloseums and Vatican squares flitted through his mind and were dotted with late-night study sessions and application anxieties and graveyard shifts at the diner, and then, she gave him a smile so sweet he wanted to kiss it off her lips so it could be imprinted upon his own.

He remembered the little stall-shops he always saw in Italy, and every few minutes he would stop to stare at their collection of postcards, each painted with a lovely scene that just screamed 'Italy, in your face, bub!' He wanted to write to her about everything, the people, the birds, the food (oh my _God, _the food!) and the way tourists would stop and check their watches every time the bells of a cathedral toll (and it would sometimes be annoying, because they would stop in the middle of their tracks and even have the nerve to _scold _Lovino when he accidentally-on-purpose bump into them, and _you wouldn't fucking believe it, Bel, like, seriously!_)

He wanted to buy a postcard to write down, 'Wish you were here', and he would mean every word – because it would be his tiny little birthday-candle, two-pennies-thrown-down-the-wishing-well wish, if only it could be granted. Then, he imagined, Bel would receive it and it would make her smile, and it would make her laugh, and then he would finally get a chance to take her hand so that they could waltz where they weren't supposed to waltz and run where they weren't supposed to run (like that time she and Antonio acted like utter children and raced around the aisles of their town's local Wal-mart.) Lovino thought about her all the time –

And yet, in the end, he came home empty-handed.

("Oh, Lovino, would you please stop crumpling up every postcard we come across? If you want one, just buy one already!")

("I'm not going to waste my hard-earned money on pieces of shit like this, Feliciano, you dumbass. God.")

("Uh-huh. Right. Okay. Who were you planning to send it to, anyway? Antonio?")

("Are you kidding? Being away from that tomato bastard is freaking good for the soul, seriously, and hell if I'm ever sending _him _anything. Fuck no.")

("Ah. Then, your other friend, maybe? What was her name? Bel, right?")

("What? No!")

("Because, y'know, if it's for her, I think I could lend you some money for just one postcard. You spent too much of yours gorging yourself on lasagna – am I right?")

(…"Sh–shut up.")

Lovino inhaled and took Bel's hand, stopping it mid-combing.

"What's with you, Lovino?" Bel asked, still smiling. "I thought you liked me ruffling your hair. Geez, how long have you been in Italy?"

He made a noncommittal snorting sound and shrugged. "I 'unno. I just…I'm happy to see you, I guess," he mumbled almost inaudibly.

"Aww. Looks like all those days spent in Venice and Rome made you mushy and stuff, Lovi. We're going to have to fix that."

"What–hey!" he squawked indignantly. That certainly wasn't the reaction he hoped to receive – no, he imagined something along the lines of almost-romantic hugs and/or kisses, hearing the branches as they bent in the wind, and being warm together. Hot breaths and blankets and wrapping themselves close. But this was June, and it was the middle of summer, and they were smack dab in the middle of a fucking parking lot, for Christ's sake, and it all absolutely did _not_ fit into the equation.

And there was also Antonio to think about.

(Because the prince had fallen off of his horse while trying to rescue his princess, and in the meantime, the peasant had offered to show her the world as seen from his old hay wagon.)

"Shit, Bel," Lovino pouted. "You suck, you know that?"

"Much better," the blonde girl concluded with a giggle. She briefly noted that Lovino hadn't yet let her hand go, and that made her arm hang limply in midair. "So…am I supposed to tell you I'll be needing two hands to actually drive, or…?"

Lovino's lips twisted into a smirk. "No, no, I knew that," he said smoothly, closing his eyes with mock-seriousness. He shifted his hand so that they were no longer grasping her palm, but intertwined with her fingers instead. Then, slowly, he brought their hands down so they caressed his cheek.

Bel let out a short bout of laughter. "Lovino, what are you–?"

He cut her off by moving their linked fingers again, and the fact that she was the one who shut up was a little odd because they had been moved to over _his_ lips and not hers. He inhaled, and he could smell her scent wafting from her skin, flowery and fresh and oh-so-familiar, like vanilla hand lotion and moringa shower gel and grape-scented cologne all rolled into one and oh-so-intoxicating (and then suddenly he could almost hear Antonio's voice reprimanding him in his head: _when you know it from one whiff, Lovi, you know it too well. Stalker-face._)

He could hear Bel giggle again, undoubtedly tickled by the little bits of air Lovino was sniffing on the back of her hand, but it stayed perfectly in place and she didn't pull it away.

He finally surprised her when he gathered up enough courage to timidly place a quick, chaste peck upon her forehead. Then, after a brief moment of stunned silence and wide eyes and beet-red faces, she laughed. It was sweet and melodious, like fresh sugar upon fruit tarts and the warm strums made on Antonio's old guitar, and for a moment, it was enough. It was like music to his ears, and it was enough.

Feliciano's words echoed in Lovino's head – _Well, maybe she should be _– and briefly he wondered whether it could be all that simple. If something so obvious could really be right (and so damn close to a 'happily-ever-after'.)

Because, he thought to himself, as he watched Bel push his face away with her free hand with a snicker, faint pinkness splattered across her cheeks. If it was so, he certainly wouldn't mind.

(And Antonio could go suck it.)

**. . .**

**endnotes. **Wow, okay. Ending has problems. But I'm kind of in love with the rest of this. Because Italy in the summer is totally _awesome._ And the young men there – so effin' gorgeous, like, seriously. ❤ _Amore_!

This fic is dedicated for the daaarling starlight amethyst, whom I obviously (and obnoxiously, sorry) fangirl over whenever I get the opportunity. Here's to you, dude! C:


End file.
